A Wonderful Empire, Truely
by Funkmaster Garlic
Summary: Involving the adventures of Refaelia, an immigrant battle mage from Morrowind, and Dagon's attempt at the empire. Includes one morally delayed Bosmer, one enthusiastic, boxing Argonian,two vaguely amused dremora, and more, which won't fit in this summary.
1. Reasons Unspecified

_A/N: Alright, this is my first Elder Scrolls fan fiction, as well as my first fic in quite a while. Hopefully it's not terrible... For the most part I try to stay as lore-accurate as possible, except when I'm not. When I'm not is when I'm parodying the in-game technicalities, which don't fit in with the lore. If I write something that is downright lore-incorrect, and it doesn't appear to be parody, give me a shout and I'll do everything within my power to fix it. Read, review, and enjoy! _

**Act 1: Reasons Unspecified**

**Sympathy for the Revolting...**

"You are far too pretty to worship here." Hjolfrodi the Harrier said, after looking over the newcomer to the Namira shrine.

"You lie. I'm very disgusting, and very stupid. And I must have been especially disgusting and stupid, as I have been banished." this newcomer replied.

It was a dremora, and a wretched one at that. Hjolfrodi was not sure whether its pathetic behavior had begun before or after its banishment; but had it been before, she couldn't say she blamed the other daedra.

But no matter how much it sulked, and argued, and lay face-down in the snow; it was simply not pathetic enough to be a Namira worshipper. The arguing part had pretty much set that in stone, as well as the dremora part. And it _was _pretty-- at least as pretty as you could call a dremora before it began calling you deceased.

It was taking a female form right now, and it wore a plain black, if tattered robe. It's black, leathery-looking skin was dotted with dark red markings; and ever since it had been called "pretty" it had hidden its face behind its matted grayish hair.

"Listen, for _normal_ people... And daedra, being rejected by Namira worshippers is a _good _thing. So if I don't deem you cringe worthy, then... Find somewhere else to go." Hjolfrodi continued.

The dremora raised her head, and murmured, "Surely I am so repulsive that no mortal would have words to describe it. My offensiveness is so true that it won't even fit in your mortal brain. I--"

"Listen; there is a wizard's tower up on top of Gnoll Mountain. How about you go practice being repulsive there, until you get good at it?"

Alcatraz had absolutely no idea why she had been banished. But she did know that it had been her fault. As a churl, nearly everything had been her fault. It was a fact of life that you just had to get used to, until you were given the opportunity to rise in rank.

And though she had accepted this long ago, and put up no resistance to her superiors, she had been banished.

Maybe her superiors thought she did not even deserve churl status. She was a terrible fighter, with mace and sword, spear and axe, bow and arrow. And at the various forms of Magic, she was no better, perhaps even worse. But there were plenty of terrible churls; especially those who had just returned from a long trip to the void.

Alcatraz certainly did not feel banished. But she knew that she was, and it was her fault for it.

**Welcome to Cyrodiil...**

"Cyrodiil certainly is beautiful... And green... And bright..." Refaelia announced, to no one in particular.

This one, Refaelia, happened to be a dunmer mage, with short, blue-black hair, and quite a bit of ambition. She had come all the way from the city of Vivec to join the prestigious Cyrodiilic mages guild, in hopes of becoming a professional battle mage. She had crossed the border illegally, but surprisingly, the only resistance she had been given was a thick magical barrier that covered the border.

But she had not hired a guide for nothing. The altmer who had opted to take her into Cyrodiil had done away with this barrier almost _too_ easily; gibbering some magic that sounded suspiciously like "", before some more Tamriellic sounding words. Soon afterwards, he repeated the incantation, and then bid Ref a quick farewell.

"Ah, Cyrodiil." Refaelia breathed. "Quite barren for the cosmopolitan center of the empire. My map says that a city called "Cheydinhal" is some miles North-North-West of here. Cyrodiil is supposed to be densely populated, but I don't even see a settlement... Maybe it's just because I'm still in the mountains..."

She began to trek down the narrow, dirt path (probably a smuggler's path), whistling a dunmer folk song as she went.

Unfortunately for Ref, minotaurs do not like dunmer folk songs. Their dislike of dunmer music is just enough to bring them to violence, but not enough to drive them away.

At times like this, Ref wished that she had bought a guidebook.

The minotaur stepped onto the path, swinging a war hammer in a threatening sort of way.

"I _really _should have bought that guidebook..." Refaelia remarked.

It is a good thing that aside from silt striders, boats, and guild guides; dunmer are always walking and running to places on the island of Vvardenfell. It is an equally good thing that all dunmer on Vvardenfell are in good shape.

Refaelia was now into her third mile of running; and was now into the rolling hills and valleys of the Nibenay basin.

"Surely you'd think that I'd have seen a fort or a settlement by now?" Refaelia thought aloud, in a voice that dripped something between fear, confusion, and irony.

She had passed a few forts, only they had been in ruin.

"And wouldn't the Imperial Legion take better care of it's forts in the center of the Empire?"

In her haste, she nearly plowed onto and over two Imperial Legion foresters.

"Thank the nine! I'm saved!" Refaelia panted, dropping to her knees.

"Why... Won't... You... DIE!"

"Huh?"

Ref raised her head slowly; the feeling that she was not going to like what she saw rising in her chest.

The foresters were _shooting at each other._

"What in Oblivion..."

And if that wasn't enough to make her want to faint out of pure irony; what stepped out of the grass next was.

The mud crab clicked its pincers, in a quasi-menacing way. The minotaur had long since given up the chase.

Refaelia had no doubts whatsoever about how great the empire was.


	2. It Begins with Dreams

_A/N: Thanks for the nice reviews, guys! And I have to apologize for a couple of things. When the Altmer says "" or "Tilde!" depending on when you read my story, it was only written that way because the site doesn't seem to take tildes! So I guess I have to bag my joke about the console commands... And me using tildes as separation for sections. From now on I'll use (xxx) to separate sections, because hopefully the site/document manager will accept it! Enjoy!_

**Chapter 2: It Begins with Dreams...**

**Suspicious...**

"You're going to _die _in here. You hear me, bosmer; you're going to _die!_"

"I realize that. Now could you give it a rest? I need to sleep off that horsemeat..."

The bosmer had been arrested earlier that day, and he couldn't see why. It would have been a crime _not _to eat a horse that fat. In retrospect, maybe he should have asked the owner of said horse before proceeding to cook it and eat it.

Arwen the bosmer lay upon the suspicious-looking bedroll under the suspicious-looking arch in his very own suspicious-looking cell. He attempted to ignore this collective suspiciousness, but he just couldn't shake the bad vibes he was getting.

And Valen Dreth wouldn't shut up.

"Oooh, looks like the guards are coming... For you! Kekekekeke!"

"Well, it's about time." Arwen replied irritably.

Just being in the same room as Valen would have been enough of a punishment.

At least the dunmer hadn't been lying this time. Guards did come; however they were wearing unusual armor, and they were accompanied by a strange old man in fancy fur robes. Arwen didn't like the look of this-- he pretended to be asleep.

He heard the strange guards grumbling about something; and the gates to his cell creaked open.

"Prisoner, get up!"

Grumbling, the bosmer got to his feet. His stomach began making some truly malevolent noises; followed by the feeling that it was going to implode upon itself. Arwen seriously reconsidered eating _that _much horsemeat. Next time he would only eat half of the damn beast.

"You... I've seen you..." The old man began, padding over to Arwen, who was still cringing in pain. "Let me see your face... You are the one from my dreams..."

"_Really _now? Nice to know... Now if you don't mind; can I go back to being doubled over in pain?" Arwen growled.

"Show some respect for your emperor, prisoner!" snapped one of the guards.

"You mean the emperor's going to share this cell with me? Wow, Cyrodiilic laws sure are strict, even on their ruler..."

"Of course not, prisoner! Now stand over by the window-- out of our way!"

Arwen made a show of staggering over to the window; still clutching his stomach. The emperor eyed him in an affectionate way; which Arwen decided, just made things worse.

The female of the strange guards was searching the wall around Arwen's suspicious-looking arch; and then, finding what she was looking for, pressed in a brick. Now Arwen understood why the arch had seemed so suspicious-- it was a door.

The guards and the emperor soon left; relieved, the bosmer lay down upon his now trampled bedroll, and began to sleep off his stomach cramp.

(xxx)

**Unusual for Tourists...**

Refaelia had found that Cyrodiil was not living up to its hype. On her way to Cheydinhal, she had discovered more ruined forts; one or two settlements; plenty of caves and ruins; as well as plenty of hostile creatures (luckily none of them were strong); not exactly what she had read about. Cyrodiil, if a rainforest at all, was a temperate one, not the sprawling jungle she had expected. And the city of Vivec seemed far more populated than what she had seen of Cyrodiil so far.

But then again, you can never count on authors to be reliant. Recently Refaelia had read a very convincing article-- that is, convincing until it clamed that Lord Vivec was Lorkhan, Molag Bal's lover, the child of Tiber Septim, a reindeer, and the original internet hate machine. (Of course, everyone knows that the Molag Bal part is true. But the others...) And authors also have the tendency to bail out of their projects when the going gets rough...

So Refaelia decided to conveniently forget all she had ever thought she had known about Cyrodiil; and soak in whatever the canon Cyrodiil had in store for her. She figured that if nothing else, it would improve her mood, and keep her from complaining.

It was dark now; at the Cheydinhal Bridge Inn; and Refaelia was eating some stew quietly in the corner.

A drunken dunmer stumbled up to her, and in a high-pitched slur, asked: "Hey pretty lady... Spare a Septim... For a drink..."

"Sorry I... I only have drakes." Refaelia said as sweetly as she could with a scowl on her face.

Drunks, in Morrowind and in Cyrodiil were the same. Filthy and lacking intelligence.

Cyrodiil still was unusual though. Even though she was an Outlander, and obviously so, she wasn't being treated as such. People were actually being rather nice to her. Even the innkeeper had taken her drakes, though it was not the common currency. And Cyrodiilic accents were quite unusual. For some reason, the male dunmer sounded like teenaged bosmer!

Cyrodiil was strange, but it wasn't so bad, Refaelia decided. She would see just how conventional or unconventional the mages guild was tomorrow, as well as their Imperial Cult chapels.

But for now, seconds.

(xxx)

**For his own Well-Being...**

The emperor was dead. This Arwen knew well, as he had watched it happen, and had killed the emperor's murderer. And while he was relieved that he was no longer a part of an old man's dreams; he was now responsible for that old man's responsibilities.

Such as finding the sole Septim heir. And delivering the Amulet of Kings to a man named Jauffre. And closing the 'Jaws of Oblivion'. Whatever that meant.

Arwen figured that unless this 'Jauffre' offered some sort of nice reward, he wasn't going to go about shutting anybody's jaws. Nice rewards were Arwen's only sort of motivation; unless the other option was suffering consequences. The only reason why he was even bothering to bring the amulet to Jauffre was because he was certain that if he didn't get rid of it soon, he'd end up beheading himself trying to get it around his neck.

While sleeping off his cramp; a few giant rats had interrupted his rest. After dealing with them, using his fists (which Valen sniggered about), he had decided he was feeling well enough to explore the mysterious passage, looking for a way out of prison. He ended up finding a short sword (off of the earlier female guard's body), some rats, various loot, and a cave of goblins before just about falling onto the emperor and his bodyguards.

The emperor, being just as creepy as before had asked Arwen's birth sign, and whether he liked long walks on the beach before bidding the bosmer to come along with him. Soon after, the emperor had been murdered; Baurus declared Arwen a pilgrim (which Arwen disagreed with-- he was a barbarian!); and he made his way out of the sewers, into the warm summer night.

Passing a road sign, Arwen noticed; but failed to acknowledge three claw-markings on the signboard pointing towards Kvatch. It didn't matter to him-- the road sign wasn't offering any rewards.

(xxx)

**Kvatch...**

That very night, in the city of Kvatch, the sky was red, and things were burning.

Apparently, Mehrunes Dagon and his army _hated _Kvatch. Why else would they attack in the middle of the night, when the town was sleeping; not even attempting to be fair about things?

Brother Martin guessed that this was the reason why Dagon chose to go against his own lack of subtlety, and his dremora's honor, to launch a sneak attack. Either that or someone was helping him. As a former daedra worshipper, Martin was aware of this-- Dagon much preferred stomping around, causing big booms, and eating nords with wasabi to any form of subtlety.

But a sneak attack had happened, and all that was organic in Kvatch was burning. The main raiding party had disappeared about an hour back, along with most of the oblivion gates, and the siege crawler (Dagon's typical theatrics), and now all that was left were a few survivors, huddled in the chapel; and a few clannfear and scamps, stalking the ruined streets.

Martin was overwhelmed as it was by the night's events, but the others, who had never seen such a situation in their lives; were even worse off. The priest went to comfort them, in any way he could.

It was going to be a long night.


End file.
